The 61st Annual Hunger Games
by VeloxVoid
Summary: The year of the 61st Annual Hunger Games was a memorable one. Join the escort and the tributes involved, see their perspectives, and uncover the events both inside and outside of the arena that led to an earth-shattering victory.
1. Chapter 1 - The Reaping

It was midday. In the Capitol, midday meant glaring sun, cloudless skies, and sitting upon sun-loungers by the pool. Here in District 8, however, the sky was a miserable grey, fumes sticking to the air from the endless factory chimneys and threatening to choke the escort of the 61st annual Hunger Games.

Bianchi Leclerc stood upon the stage that had been erected before the city hall - a makeshift platform constructed from wood that Bianchi supposed would once have looked rather beautiful. Hints of red attempted to shine through the polished wood, becoming lost beneath the scratches and wear that had accumulated over the years. She stood at the front and centre of it, a line of chairs behind her seating District 8's well-to-do, although they all looked rather shabby in comparison to her - the Capitol's General Escort.

Being appointed General Escort had proven an arduous task. For the 60th Hunger Games, the President had proposed a new way of escorting the districts' tributes. One General Escort would reap all of the year's tributes - would travel the twelve districts over twelve days to conduct each reaping, and act as a spokesperson for the Games. Supposedly, this would make following the Games easier for the Capitol viewers: having only one escort to focus on would make for better viewing, and meant finding a commentator to sit alongside Caesar Flickerman would require no search at all. Bianchi was most excited to be a commentator; getting a taste for each tribute at the reapings would give her the upper hand.

After the 60th Games' General Escort - Nikolaus Silva - had stepped down from the position after one measly year, Bianchi had been delighted to be elected next. Her success of escorting District 1 during the 59th had evidently impressed President Snow - and her status as Flickerman's second cousin had always won her popularity points.

That being said, Bianchi could now see why Silva had left the job. After only eight days, she already felt exhausted. So many tributes, so many train journeys, and so many meetings could take their toll on a person. Bianchi wished to be back at home, watching the Games unfold from the comfort of her four-poster bed, but alas. _Oh well_, she thought, looking out at the smog-laden sky. _At least it pays well_.

By now, as the reaping was just about to begin, masses of children had filed into the city square. There were thousands of them standing in neat lines before the stage, fidgeting restlessly like little maggots trapped in cans. Bianchi's nose wrinkled at the thought. So many children - all wearing their laughable excuses of finery, all snot-nosed and crying and coughing from the industrial fumes that made Bianchi want to sit in a steam-bath for the rest of time.

One hand of the clock tower in the centre of the square ticked over, and at once began the bone-rattling sound of bells, playing out a dirge-like rendition of Panem's national anthem. Seconds turned into what felt like hours as Bianchi stood, waiting, watching as the children before her grew more restless and jittery, their parents standing behind the barricades beginning to chew upon their fingernails and embrace each other with pained, teary faces.

_So pathetic_, Bianchi had to shake her head a little as the clock tower began long, doleful chimes to count the hours. _Snivelling and sobbing… This is an honour! You're lucky to be given such an opportunity!_

She knew she couldn't say that, though. Instead, once the clock tower had finally silenced its tedious chimes, she gave the microphone a couple of taps to hear them resonate back at her through the speakers, and spoke loudly to the crowd of thousands before her.

"Welcome, my dear District 8, to the 61st annual Hunger Games!" As usual, no sort of applause or cheer was given in the pause that followed. "I am Bianchi Leclerc, honoured to be Panem's General Escort this year. But, I'm sure you already knew that!" Again, nothing from the miserable citizens below her. She fought off a scowl and replaced it with a beam. "As is tradition, let us watch this short clip, as a reminder of how our wonderful Games came to be."

Bianchi gestured above her, to where a projector shone upon the pale bricks of the city hall to create a screen. As the video began to play - the dreaded cinematic that she'd heard seemingly a thousand times in her life - she kept a smile plastered to her face and let her mind wander.

She probably should have worn a different pantsuit today. While dresses were pretty, Bianchi adopted pantsuits as her signature style. It was uncommon for the Capitol ladies to wear anything other than skirts and dresses this year, ever since A-lines had come back into fashion, but Bianchi Leclerc made it work for her. Today, she'd chosen a stunning cloth-of-silver material, but that was her first mistake. She'd wanted to stand out - have the sun glint off her clothes and make her look like the surface of a river come to life - but no. Instead, with the clouds enveloping any form of natural light, Bianchi merely blended in with the dull sky, dull buildings, and dull, dull sullen shells of people who inhabited this forsaken, drivelling district.

At least her hair looked nice. She'd dyed it sky blue to accompany her goal of looking like a beautiful stream, and wore it bone-straight down to her hips. The right side of it was shaven - another signature look of hers - and she had adorned her sky-like tresses with cerulean glitter to really make herself shine. If only she'd made her lipstick and eyeshadow blue too, instead of silver…

A moment of panic settled over her as she realised the music around her had stopped. The clip was over, and thousands of faces now stared at her as she came to life again before District 8.

"Well, wasn't that wonderful!" she chirped, trying to settle her beating heart. Oh, how she hoped she hadn't been standing like an idiot for too long. "Now, for the moment we've all been waiting for! It's time to choose our lucky tributes for this year!"

Bianchi Leclerc turned to her left, to where a huge glass ball sat upon a sheet of red velvet that had been draped over a pedestal. The Reaping Ball for the boys, filled with thousands of slips of folded-up card. The woman trotted over to it, thankful that she'd worn stylish flats instead of heels, and reached to the very bottom of the ball with one dainty hand. Her fingers closed around one card immediately, feeling almost as though it had swum into her reach. She removed her hand, returned to her microphone, and began to open up the slip of paper.

She'd already done this fourteen times. The first four had been exciting - had sent adrenaline coursing through her veins as she'd opened the little slip - but now, she felt almost bored. Bianchi Leclerc unfolded the paper, glanced at the name, and then called out into the microphone:

"Fabio Noil!"

The familiar hush followed her voice, and then came the murmurings. Every non-career district reacted in this way. It was so boring; where was the merriment - the elation? The cheers and the stomping and the squabbling to volunteer? No, in District 8, each boy stared at one another until eventually one of them stumbled out of their pen and began to shakily approach the stage, ushered by Peacekeepers.

Fabio Noil actually looked healthy for a lower class tribute. He was positively plump, unlike the spindly excuses for children that lined the square. In a black suit that looked slightly too tight for him, Fabio climbed the small steps to the stage, eyes huge and terrified in his chubby face.

"Fabio," Bianchi gave him an applause as the rest of the district remained silent. He mounted the stage, stumbled slightly, but still came towards her with his petrified black eyes. Plucking the microphone from its stand, Bianchi handed it to him as she asked a question. "How old are you, dear Fabio?"

His eyes were unblinking, never leaving hers, as though terrified she'd bite him if he looked away. "I… I'm… Thirteen…" _He sounds it_. His voice was cracking rapidly with his words, evidently in the midst of puberty.

"_Thirteen_," Bianchi tried to make that fact sound enthralling. "But you're going to try to win, aren't you!"

Giving a panicked blink, Fabio nodded.

Bianchi had to physically stifle a noise of annoyance. Another runt - another frail and snivelling child who would get nowhere and impress nobody. Likely with no talents, no drive, and nothing but fear to help him through the arena. Another weakling who would do nothing but waste Bianchi's time when she could be getting to know some other, more interesting tributes.

The woman took Fabio by the shoulders and placed him to the left of the microphone stand, which she then returned the microphone to. Heading to the reaping ball on the right-hand side, Bianchi reached to the bottom, grabbed the first slip she found, and returned back to her original place. The slip was opened, the name was read, and Bianchi announced the name:

"Isabile Silex!"

Watching the crowd part and another small body head towards the stage, Isabile Silex looked more like the average District 8 child. Slight, slender, and skinny. But, her gait was different. The girl approached the stage with square shoulders and clenched fists - rather different from the cowering, shuddering mess that had been Fabio Noil.

Despite their different physiques, and vastly different strides, however, Isabile looked rather like she could be Fabio's sister. They both had dark skin, Fabio's olive and Isabile's mid-brown, and both with black eyes and short black hair. Fabio had his slicked back with some form of grease, but Isabile had wild, tight curls that fell over her forehead as though she'd just rolled out of bed, the sides and back shaved down to the skin.

"And, Isabile," Bianchi offered her arm out to prompt the girl towards her. "How old are you?"

Isabile strode over to the General Escort with a face of thunder, dark shadows encircling her eyes of onyx. "Fifteen," she said, voice bold and cutting.

Interestingly, her eyes did not leave Bianchi's face either, but not out of fear like Fabio. No - Isabile stared down Bianchi Leclerc as though challenging her - anger seeming to heat the very air around her.

"Fifteen…" Bianchi was put off, finding herself incapable of pulling away from the fire behind the tribute's eyes. "… Very nice." When at last she composed herself, she turned back towards the silent crowd. "Well, we have our two tributes! One is fearful and one seems fierce; it seems we have a real interesting bunch on our hands this year! Don't forget to tune in tomorrow, when I'll be unveiling the tributes from grand old District 9! Let's give a hand for Fabio and Isabile!"

Almost reluctantly, the crowds of District 8 began to applaud. The children at the front seemed relieved, finally able to relax without the fear of being reaped, but the adults lining the rest of the streets of the city centre seemed hollow and frightened. _More sheep_.

As the reaping came to a close, Bianchi Leclerc noticed that the sky had somehow grown darker above her. Black had begun to curdle with the dark grey to create menacing clouds, giving the impression that there would be a tempest brewing. Peacekeepers marched the two little tributes into the city hall they stood before, and Bianchi couldn't help feeling - as she watched the brooding form of Isabile Silex's tiny frame disappear behind the doors - that the sky mimicked the young girl's mind. Dark, fearsome, and _furious_.

An angry tribute always made for an interesting one; the feistier they were, the thirstier they were for victory. Bianchi Leclerc's silver-painted lips began to smile. Perhaps the 61st Hunger Games could provide an interesting fight after all.


	2. Chapter 2 - The Tribute Parade

Even from safely inside the building, the roar of the crowd outside was deafening in his ears. Ignacio Boole stood uneasily upon the chariot, the chestnut coats of the horses in front of him gleaming under the piercingly white lights they were all standing beneath. He wasn't used to this; his prep team fawned over him as he stood, trembling, waiting for the Tribute Parade to begin.

"Oh, Ignacio, don't you look fabulous!" one of them squawked in their funny, twisted accent. They smoothed out his lab-coat that he'd been stuffed into, making sure there were no creases in the thick white fabric. "Like a true lab worker! Like you're in the forefront of a technological breakthrough!"

Ignacio didn't know how to tell them that the workers of District 3 didn't often wear lab-coats to work. He'd worked in his father's factory almost all of his life as a welder - as somebody who assembled the 'technological breakthroughs', and never once had he worn a lab-coat. A dark blue apron smeared by oil and singed by sparks, mayhaps, but never once a lab-coat.

Circe Galvan, the other tribute from 3, was ushered up onto the chariot next, her own lab-coat being sleeveless and only just reaching her upper thighs with it's short, skimpy cut. While Ignacio's own was at least scientifically accurate - if not hugging him a bit too tightly to accentuate his broad figure - Circe's was a mess. It only buttoned up to about her mid-chest, leaving the skin beneath exposed to reveal her collarbones and sternum. If Circe had been thrown into a lab in that outfit, she'd surely be dead within a few days from chemical exposure to all of that bare skin.

Ignacio rolled his eyes as he watched District 3's stylists pat each other on the backs, gushing over how the two of them looked. "You understand that we never really wear these, right?" he called over to them, watching as they blinked confoundedly at him. "And, even if we did, the state of Circe's is an honest-to-goodness health hazard."

Circe looked over at him with anxious eyes as she fought to pull her garment down further over her legs. The poor girl - she was only fourteen and was already subjected to these Capitol nuts wanting to stare at her bare thighs. The thought made bile rise in Ignacio's throat.

Being thrown into the Hunger Games, where he would almost certainly meet his demise, was bad enough. That was enough to make him - a fully grown man at 18 - scream and cry and have a panic attack on the train to the Capitol. He didn't even want to begin thinking about how Circe would have felt.

He'd thought the inevitable death would be the worst part. He'd expected to spend his every day worrying about the pain of being stabbed, or having his throat slit, or worse - having to face the idea of killing somebody else. But, he'd barely had time to worry about all of that. Instead he'd been slapped in the face with the weird ways of the Capitol: their food and fashion and grooming methods. It was a strange place - a sickening place, with ways of life so baffling they threatened to make Ignacio sick.

And now, he had to watch a bunch of grown adults sexualise a child. Gritting his teeth, Ignacio pushed aside the prep team's hands that danced all around him and put one palm on Circe's back in an attempt at comfort. "Are you okay?" he asked her.

The girl looked embarrassed - uncomfortable - fright and humiliation lighting her eyes. "I'm okay," she said through a trembling voice. Ignacio couldn't help but feel that she wasn't. He'd never had any siblings, but the way he felt right now - as though he needed to protect this girl - made him feel the closest to having a sibling that he'd ever had.

"Just stand close to the front of the chariot," he said, taking a step forwards as the girl followed him. "That way, they won't have a great look at us."  
She smiled in return, but it was interrupted as their stylists - Ignacio hadn't cared enough to remember their names - piped up over the chatter of the rest of the room. "Oh, darlings! Take a step back, would you? We can't see your wonderful coats!"

Ignacio cupped a hand around his ear. "I'm sorry?" he called back. "I can't hear you over the noise!"

"I said-!"

But they were cut off as the large set of double doors before them - grandiose, with golden swirling patterns atop the silver steel - began to open. The screams and calls of the crowd outside flooded the room, bouncing off each wall to hit their ears a thousand times louder. No words were intelligible - nothing in particular was being said, or chanted; instead, it seemed each member of the Capitol was simply fighting to be heard over one another. They hollered and bellowed, whistled and shrieked. They sounded like a pack of apes squabbling, screaming incoherently just for the sake of it.

He felt his legs begin to shake. Ignacio hated how all of this had gotten to him. He'd always prided himself on his confidence - on his stubbornness and seemingly-indomitable will. Ever since his name had been called, though - at the reaping, by that stupid pretentious Bianchi - he'd felt anxiety for the first time in his life. Crowds made him nervous. Public speaking made him nervous. People looking at him, and flattering him, and screeching at him in their excitement made him so nervous he felt his knees threaten to give way beneath him.

Ahead of him, the horses of District 1's chariot began to prance through the door, and the two tributes lifted their arms to embrace the crowd. Ignacio pushed his glasses further up his nose.

District 2 began to pull away next, their horses' coats seeming to glow beautifully in the sun as the tributes' Peacekeeper costumes reflected white painfully against his eyes. Ignacio pressed his hand against Circe's back, and the two of them shuffled even further up against the front of their chariot, trying to make their costumes as indiscernible as possible.

"Do you wanna link?" Ignacio offered Circe the crook of his elbow, and the girl took it immediately, wrapping both of her arms around it. Their horses began to trot, the chariot wheels began to turn, and before Ignacio could comprehend it, the burning light of the sun was beating down upon them.

Once they were outside, the cheers were so overwhelming - so raucous and cacophonous - that they simply melded into one large buzz, like the sound of drills in the workshop back in his district. Heading down a straight road, barricades separated hundreds - if not thousands - of the Capitol's inhabitants all fighting over one another to get a glimpse of the tributes. Ignacio felt Circe's hands tighten around his arm, the girl cowering and trying to make herself as small as physically possible as wind whipped through her hair, styled into a sleek black ponytail. Ignacio's shoulder-length hair had been tied back into a similar ponytail, but it looked far more stylish than how he usually did it himself, scraping it back into a bun atop his head so it didn't get in the way of his welding.

Huge screens lined the street the chariots raced down, and he watched with horror as they showed the beaming faces of District 1's tributes, the clamouring grins of District 2's, and then the shocked and frightened faces of himself and Circe. They looked terrible in comparison - with no vigour or magnetism like the careers before them. Ignacio was okay with that. He and Circe simply looked normal - as startled as anybody should be in their positions - and the less attention that would be drawn to them, the better.

He watched as the cameras panned down to their arms; Circe's white knuckles gripped onto Ignacio's muscled bicep as if for dear life. Somewhere beneath the discordant din of the Capitol, Ignacio supposed a commentator would be making comments about it, but he didn't care. He just wanted this to be over with - wanted the screams out of his ears and to be back on solid ground, settling his stomach that had begun to bubble with a sort of travel sickness.

Most of all, though, he just wanted to be safe. To be back with his family, in his home, in his District. Once, he'd thought his life was boring, but oh how he desperately wished to be back in that routine. He mentally cursed every time he'd taken his normal life for granted. Now, he was scared, anxious, and was about to die; he had about as much chance of surviving the Games as he had in becoming a famous stylist in the Capitol. _Zero_.

He couldn't even begin to think of how scared Circe must have been in comparison. This girl was too young for this - too pure. Ignacio made a mental note to himself: he would ask Circe Galvan to be his ally, and he would protect her until the bitter end.

* * *

With the parade over, the tributes of District 3 were finally shown up to their rooms by their mentors and stylists. Bianchi Leclerc had dashed over to them as they'd dismounted the chariots, discomposed and looking rather flustered. She'd babbled a little frantically about the general schedule, but had then scurried away again.  
"She seems busy," Circe giggled as they'd entered the elevator.

"I'm surprised her wig hasn't fallen off by now," Ignacio remarked back. The two had shared a laugh as the pristine elevator had dashed up a couple of stories, eventually opening its doors and allowing the District 3 crew entrance onto their assigned floor of the Training Centre.

Luxuries now failed to impress Ignacio Boole. The train-ride to the Capitol had been a real shock to the senses - had almost rattled Ignacio with its magnificence compared to the metropolitan uniformity of District 3. After reaching the Capitol itself, however, and being utterly oversaturated by fanciful opulence, Ignacio found he could now look past it.

The tributes were shown to their bedrooms, and were told to get changed and unwind before dinner. Circe looked incredibly relieved; she'd barely stopped pulling at the tiny lab-coat dress ever since she'd stepped foot in the chariot. Once dismissed, and the rest of the crew began heading into the main lounge area, Ignacio turned to Circe, catching the girl just as she was about to head into her room.

"Hey, Circe," he started, watching as she looked at him with her big, dejected eyes. "I don't suppose you'd like to be my ally, when the Games begin?"

Her lips parted as she gave him a look of shock. "You want to be _my_ ally?" she almost whispered.

Ignacio shrugged. Now that he thought of it, a big eighteen-year-old choosing a shaky young girl as an ally was not a common occurrence. Ignacio had a well-built physique; his days of manual labour had given him thew to his arms and a broad, muscular figure. At a glance, he supposed he looked more than capable of taking on a few careers despite the glasses upon his nose giving him a somewhat intellectual air. In actuality, Ignacio could not have killed a baby bird if it had sat helplessly in his palm; he had no fighting experience, no skill with weapons other than a welding torch, and an utterly non-existent drive to kill. He may have looked like a contender, like an unlikely partner for a fourteen-year-old girl, but he and Circe had more in common than anyone knew.

Alongside these facts, Ignacio Boole had an almost paternal instinct to help this girl - this poor young lady who assuredly did not stand a chance in these Games. "I want to have your back. If you'd like."

Circe Galvan beheld the man before her for a long moment. Eventually, however, her face broke into a shy smile. "I _would_ like that."

A rush of warmth flooded Ignacio's chest. Trust. The first time he'd felt anything close to happiness in this entire forsaken experience. Not only did Ignatio now feel like he had a friend, but he also felt a resolve; now, he had a reason to fight. If not for himself, he would fight for Circe. If he couldn't make it out alive, he'd help the girl.


	3. Chapter 3 - The Training Centre

With a single thrust of her arms, Chai Camelia stabbed her spear into the heart of the mannequin with all her might. She grunted as she did so, the noise leaving her mouth in a sort of war cry, feeling the head of the spear plunge through the material twice, punching straight through its body and out of the back. She allowed herself to revel for a moment, a satisfied grin overcoming her face as she relished her success, before she pulled the spear out in one swift motion.

"Chai!" exclaimed a familiar voice, her training partner coming over to her and patting her on the back. "That was incredible!"

"Oh, please," Chai dismissed him, tossing her auburn curls over her shoulder. "You could do better." _Modesty is the best policy._

Chai had known her training partner, Bespoke Cordwain, all her life. The two were born in the same hospital, had lived on the same street, and had trained for the Hunger Games together since they were both seven years old. Now, ten years later, they had felt at their prime, and had made a pact to volunteer together. Those few fateful days ago, the names of two young cretins had been called; Bespoke and Chai had successfully volunteered first, and they had climbed the stage hand-in-hand and embraced to the cheers of the rest of District 1.

Chai would be sad to lose her best friend, but such was the Hunger Games. To die in the arena was an honour, but to win in the arena was even more-so. It felt as though Chai had spent her entire life training for the Games; her mother had never gotten the chance to volunteer, and so had taught Chai valuable skills ever since she could remember. When she wasn't old enough to physically fight, she would learn edible plants, how to tie snares, and how to start fires. When she could physically fight, at around the age of four, she had been taught her mother's specialty.

Chai Camelia's mother was a dancer. In her youth, she had even performed for the Capitol, enchanting the nation with her fan dancing. Not only were fans beautiful and enchanting - perfect for somebody with Chai's grace and allure - but they could also be crafted into a weapon. Sharp blades and pointed barbs could be crafted around the edges of a fan to turn it into a war machine. With her mother's tutoring, Chai had learned to master the fans and the precise movements that came with wielding them, combining combat with art to become both dazzling and dangerous.

When Chai's brother Tisane was born three years later, Chai could hardly wait to practice sparring with him. When the two of them weren't attending fighting lessons with Bespoke, they were having false battles in their back garden, their mother watching proudly over them.

And now, Chai stood in the heart of the Training Centre, the stations all around her, making sure to practice with all the other weapons she'd become proficient in over her ten years of prior training. She was handy with spears - they'd been her father's weapon of choice - but she also liked pikes, lances, morning stars… anything long-distance. She'd decided to leave her fan prowess until the very last day of training, as a scare tactic. Except, there were no fans at the moment.

There were feathers and wood in the fish-hook and fire-starting stations, and Chai would make sure to build some makeshift fans as best she could to display her skills to the Gamemakers. Fans had never been used before in the Games - not to her knowledge, anyway - and thus were not one of the basic weapons able to be trained with before they were sent to the arena. If Chai could demonstrate her abilities with them in the private session, though, she was sure they'd create some just for her, to spice up the Games. If not, though… Well, she'd just have to cope with a hand-crafted one. She was positive she'd be able to. She was positive she'd win.

Her best friend laughed, snapping her from her daydream. "Don't be so modest - you know it doesn't work with me!" Bespoke held a sword - his weapon of choice - and Chai knew to step well away from the mannequin as, in one brutally-fast swing, he severed its head clean off.

"Show-off," she giggled at him. Watching Bespoke grin back at her, however, she couldn't help but give him a grimace. "What did those stylists do to your lovely hair?"

Usually, Bespoke Cordwain's hairstyle was a short, straight undercut. He'd kept it in the same fashion for almost his entire childhood - loving preening it himself and taking hours to sculpt it into a windswept fashion. While it had remained the same cool mid-brown colour since joining the Games, the stylists had utterly ruined the style; now, he had something that bordered on a buzz-cut, shaved down almost to the skin below. Somehow, though, with his square jaw and heavy brow-bone, he still looked handsome.

"Apparently it was to make me look more _threatening_." He rolled his eyes.

"They ruined you!" She gave a false pout at him, showing she was joking.

"Speak for yourself!" Bespoke smiled back. "Why did they give you that awful fake tan?"

"I can deal with the tan," Chai said. "I'm just glad they left my hair alone!" Relief was audible in her voice. "I swear I would have slit their throats if they'd touched it!" Her hair - rib-length, wavy, and the colour of smouldering embers - was her pride and joy. She'd inherited all of her colouration from her mother: naturally-pale skin and red hair, and startling green irises glowing out from large round eyes.

Her training partner turned and grinned at her before picking up the foam head that had fallen to the floor with a satisfying 'thud'. He threw it to her and, quick as a flash, she threw up her arm, impaling the head on the tip of the spear in her grip. Bespoke Cordwain and Chai Camelia laughed together, as they had so many times before in their childhood, and lowered their weapons. Bespoke approached her, only a couple of inches taller, and embraced his best friend.

"We're gonna _own_ these Games," he said with confidence, a little too loudly. Chai felt the room hush around her, began to feel irritated eyes boring into her back, and pulled away from their hug.

But, Bespoke was right. "You know it!" She gave him a grin - one that she knew was captivating - one that her mother had taught her. And with that, she turned, placing the base of her spear upon the ground to show the tributes around her the prowess of the two of them.

She took a good look at the rest of the room. Experts stood at each station, most of them with at least one tribute visiting. "Who shall we have, Bespoke?" she asked her partner.

"Hmm," he gave, sheathing his sword.

Two sorry-looking girls stood at the archery station, trying fruitlessly to get their arrows to hit a target. One of them had shiny black hair that had been tied into a painfully-tight ponytail, and the other she recognised from District 7. That fool - Sylvie, she'd heard her called - had bumped into her before the Tributes Parade. The two of them were so puny-looking - cowards just from the sight of them. They were not worth even considering as allies: they'd most likely die in the bloodbath, trying to scamper away to safety.

At the fire-starting station sat a boy. Well, a man: he looked older than even Bespoke, with huge shoulders and a powerful jaw. With square glasses sitting atop a long, straight nose, his appearance almost made Chai bite her lip. _Pretty cute..._ But, there would be no time for those sorts of thoughts in the arena. The man appeared to be playing with a small strand of wire - presumably he'd taken it from the knot-tying station - and was winding it around a couple of small branches.  
Chai took a couple of steps closer, trying to peer at what he was doing, when she saw him make the rapid movements of starting a fire with the branches, saw sparks fly from around his hands, and then-

A _crack_.

A small explosion had sent an ear-piercing _snap_ through the room, making a few tributes squeak in fright. When Chai calmed down a split second later, pulse heightened from the sudden panic, she noticed a small plume of smoke around the branches in the man's hands. Chai felt Bespoke sidle up to her. "Explosions with his bare hands…?" he simply said, and Chai nodded weakly in response. "We should talk to him." He sounded determined - excited.

"Definitely," Chai breathed. Somebody with scientific knowledge and skills like that would be invaluable to the career pack she intended to form. How had he done that, though? Chai and Bespoke started towards the fire-starting station, watching as the Capitol professionals had all dashed towards him to check if he was okay.

As soon as she'd begun to approach, however, a quick whistle in one ear made her head turn. A few posters of human silhouettes had been plastered against one wall, serving as targets to train with. A couple of tributes were watching as one girl - a scrawny skeleton of a girl with short, curly hair - stood powerfully a few metres before the wall, clutching a set of throwing knives. By the heaving movements of her shoulders, she was evidently breathing hard, and as Chai took a few steps forward, she noticed that two knives had already been plunged into the target; they had each landed directly where the silhouette's eyes should have been.

A cold sensation surged through her. The sight was frightening. Not much could stir the stomach of Chai Camelia, but the image of this young, small, innocent-seeming kid plunging knives directly into a target's eyes had shaken her - made her swallow a lump in her throat.

She would be somebody to watch out for. Unless she joined the careers.

"We should get her, too." Chai nodded towards the girl, who'd begun to throw the rest of her knives into the target's heart, kneecaps, and shoulders.

"Wow," Bespoke agreed. "It's hard to believe some of these kids don't come from 1 or 2."

"I know! Like, where are they getting their training?"

"Exactly." He kept his eyes upon her. "Do you know what district she's from?"

Chai considered a moment. She hadn't given any of the other tributes much thought, aside from Ferus and Daphne - the kids from 2. "No," she said at last. "I can promise you it's not 12, though!"

Bespoke and Chai shared yet another laugh together as they reached the fire-starting station, where the explosive man had stood up and begun to brush flecks of leaf and wood from his clothes. He towered above Chai, and even Bespoke; he must have been at least six feet tall.

"Hey," Chai said, watching him turn around and push his glasses up his nose with one ash-coated finger. "Pretty impressive."

He simply raised one black eyebrow at her in response.

"You've got some cool skills, there!" Bespoke nodded at the pile of singed wood and wire. "How'd you do it?"

The man scoffed. "What, and let you know my secret?"

Chai shrugged. "It'd certainly be helpful in the arena." She tried to give him her entrancing smile, but he didn't even so much as blink. "Unless you'd like to team up? Your brains and our brawn could make a superior combo."

He folded his arms. "Yeah, I'll help you win and then you'll stab me in the back as soon as you have no need of me. No thanks."

Sudden irritation made Chai's eyebrow twitch.

"What district are you from, anyway?" Bespoke spoke up.

"3," he replied. "No doubt you're Chai and Bespoke from 1."

"So, you've heard of us?" Chai crossed her own arms back at him. "Then, you'll surely know how deadly we are. You sure you don't want to form a team? Who's to say we couldn't be friends?"

"The fact that you'll kill me regardless of if I help you. Which, by the way, I won't." The boy from 3 turned, face like stone, and made to walk away. "I've already got an ally, anyway."

The way he sauntered from them - shoulders large and forbidding - made Chai's jaw tighten in annoyance.

"That went well," Bespoke said, sullenly. "Don't worry about it, Chai. Some people are just rude."

"I guess you're right," she spoke through grit teeth, watching as the man returned to the knot-tying station and began to speak to its supervisor.

"Besides, we can still try to get Knife Girl!"

That thought made Chai turn her face away from the man from 3 - made determination flare in her chest again. "Yeah. I'm sure she'll have more sense."  
But, as the two District 1 tributes turned to the targets on the wall, they could see no sign of the lithe, knife-throwing girl. Bespoke made a noise of bewilderment and begun to scour the room, but as Chai joined in his search, she soon realised that the girl was nowhere to be seen. In the training centre's basement, there were not many places to hide.

Thus, the two of them approached the targets, where a small gaggle of tributes had decided to follow in Knife Girl's stead to try throwing their weapons.

"Hey," Bespoke's voice cut through their practicing. "Where's that girl? The one with the eye knives?"

A taller girl shrugged at them, giving them a look as if to say "how should I know?". It set Chai's teeth to grinding.

"District 1!" The holler of Daphne Balonet, the broad-shouldered girl from 2, made Chai and Bespoke turn. Ferus Arbit, her male counterpart, walked by her side as they approached. "We just decimated the gauntlets!"

Chai nodded at them. "That's good!" At least she had some people on her side. One thing was for certain in her mind, though; the boy from 3 would be the first to go.


	4. Chapter 4 - The Interviews

"Have you formed any alliances, yet?"

A deep voice made Magnus jump, cutting through his anxious daydreaming. He looked up from where he'd been staring at his shoes, heart beginning to pound as he found himself face-to-face with the person who'd spoken to him.

As most of the tributes stood in a nervous queue waiting to be ushered on stage for their interview, the boy from District 11 had meandered over to the anxious boy from District 12.

Magnus Tailing did not look too different from Rosales Cultevar. Magnus knew that they were both fifteen years old, but Rosales' slim, slightly muscular frame reminded Magnus of himself. They were probably around the same height, too - just under average height for boys their age. Of course, where Magnus had caramel-coloured hair, ashen skin, and grey eyes, Rosales had hair and eyes the colour of coal, with skin of burnt umber.

His eyes were kindly. The boy from 11 gave Magnus an earnest look, who felt himself fumble over his words. _Have you formed any alliances, yet?_

"N-No…" said Magnus. He'd always been shy, and making friends had never been his strong suit. In training, he had blended into the crowd, been sure not to stand out, and had tried his hardest to pick up on skills that could help him. Needless to say, the career pack had barely even looked at him.

"Well, I couldn't help noticing that you made some really good blow-darts in training," Rosales replied. He wore a handsome sky blue suit, a white shirt beneath it giving him the appearance of one of the rare clear skies in District 12 - summer sun with sparing clouds. "I'm not good with weapons, but you seem to be. I was thinking if I've got survival, and you've got weapons…"

Magnus had to give a laugh, although whether it was from disbelief or nervousness, he couldn't tell. "I can only make blow-darts because they're easy," he said, looking down at his hands - for once not caked in District 12 grime. He'd always appreciated crafts, and had often made little trinkets for his siblings from the leaves, stones, and discarded bones he'd found around the Seam. It was only natural he'd be good at crafting a small blowgun. Firing it, however, would be a different story. "I couldn't actually fire one to save my life."

"Ironic you say that," quipped Rosales.

Magnus could not help but giggle at Rosales' somewhat morbid joke. _Wow_, he thought. _Am I really laughing in the face of death?_

But, what else was there to do? Magnus was going to die, whether he laughed about it or not. He hadn't trained a day in his life. He'd never held a weapon before besides his father's pickaxe, never had to identify a poisonous berry, and had never even been in so much as a fistfight in all his fifteen years.

The training he'd been given in the Capitol had been his first real introduction of anything he might find useful in the next coming days. And he'd been terrible at them all. He'd failed the edible plants test three times before passing, and had refused the edible insects station out of disgust. His attempts at shelter-making had been awful; he'd managed to get himself stuck in a knot he'd tried to tie, and any weapons he'd picked up had just made him seem pathetic. The only thing Magnus had been semi-successful at was making blow-darts. He'd only attempted to fire them once, however - giving up after hearing the bellows of laugher from the careers after he'd missed the target by a metre.

"Well, I'm sure you could fire one at point blank if someone was coming at you with a sword," said Rosales, cocking his head.

"Probably not if they decapitate me first," Magnus responded.

Rosales smiled at him. "Well, I agreed to team up with my district partner, Poela." He gestured to where a younger-looking girl was having her hair touched-up last-minute by gibbering stylists. "We have strength in numbers. Want to join?"

What was this swelling feeling inside Magnus's chest? It felt warm, like the first happiness he'd experienced since arriving in the Capitol. The idea of a friend coming to him at the loneliest time of his life brought a smile to his lips. "Thank you," he said quietly.

"No problem. We'd be glad to have y-"

A voice called out over all of the tributes, putting a stop to Rosales' sentence. "District 6 - Rickard Pullman - prepare to mount the stage."

The nervousness began to settle once again in Magnus' stomach as he remembered he'd be on that stage in a matter of minutes. With Rosales being called over to his own stylist and leaving Magnus alone, he had nothing to do except look around at his fellow anxious tributes, and wait.

His own district's partner, a muscular young woman named Fiona Lignite, stood with her arms folded, biting her lip. She was eighteen, and sullen - she had not said so much as a word to Magnus. Something inside of him pulled at him, tempting him to ask her to join his makeshift team, but her drawn eyebrows and constant frown to her lips made him think she would simply reply with a disgusted grunt. No - perhaps Fiona was best left alone.

Rosales had been sucked into a conversation with his mentors, and laughed with Poela. Wearing a dress that matched Rosales' suit, she looked to be just younger than the two of them, with her hair in countless tiny buns atop her head.

With naught else to do, Magnus returned his gaze to his shoes - the most supple, shining leather he'd ever seen - and waited for his interview to arrive.

* * *

"Let's make some noise for our District 12 tribute: Magnus Tailing!"

Magnus felt as though his soul had left his body upon hearing his name: as though he were watching himself through someone else's eyes as he mounted the stage. The nerves wracked him so much he barely even felt sick anymore; the hot, shaking sweats had left and made way for numbness. He grit his teeth so hard he felt his jaw ache as the lights beat down on him, making his skin slick with perspiration beneath his suit.

The crowd screamed, Caesar Flickerman laughed, and he felt a soft seat beneath him as he came back to his senses.

Sitting in the chair, upon the stage, Magnus looked out at the endless audience members, looking like pinpricks in the distance in their thousands.

"Our last tribute. How are you feeling, Magnus?" Caesar asked, the white teeth gleaming from his mouth even more blinding than the lights above them.

Magnus could not think of a single thing to say. "I'm… okay."

The audience began to roar with laughter. Caesar, whose entire visage seemed to glow a reflective metallic silver colour, slapped his knee with a raucous cackle. Magnus was baffled.

"Did you hear that, folks? He's 'okay'!" Caesar bellowed. Once he'd calmed down, and the audience had dissolved into mere giggles, he spoke again. "So, you're 'okay'. No nerves? No excitement!?"

"The boy nodded, looking down at his hands which sat in his lap. "Yeah, I'm… nervous."

The crowd emitted a simultaneous "aww".

"No need to be nervous!" Caesar exclaimed. "I'm sure you'll do just fine! You have some talents up your sleeve, surely! A young strapping boy like you - before you got here, you would have been training to go down into the mines, no?"

Magnus cocked his head from side-to-side in a non-verbal "not exactly". He was only fifteen, and wouldn't have been sent to the mines for a few more years.

"Well, what's your secret talent? Are you good with a weapon?" Caesar was leaning in his chair, trying to work his gleaming silver grin into Magnus' vision.

"I can craft?" he said, feeling his heart pounding furiously. He knew he had no talents - knew he was a lost cause. But, with an audience of seemingly millions of people with their eyes trained on him, he had to offer them something to grasp onto.

"Ohh, crafting?"

"Yeah. I, uh…" _Think of what Rosales said._ "I can make a niche weapon. Something you might not expect."

The audience cooed their intrigue, just as Caesar gasped in excitement. "What is it!? What's the weapon?"

At last, the boy looked up into those slate-grey eyes, feeling a sort of courage come crawling through his cowardliness at the prospect of his lies. "I can't exactly tell you, can I? That would ruin the surprise."

The Capitol ate it up. Cheers and applause met his ears, and Caesar Flickerman pressed a palm to his heart as though he feared for his life. "That's just what we like to hear, Magnus! And, do you intend on using the weapon?"

"Oh, yes," he replied. "I have an alliance. One that might even rival the careers." Lies. Bare-faced lies. Anybody could tell simply from looking at Magnus - the epitome of an underdog - that he wouldn't stand a chance against Bespoke or Daphne, whatever they were called. But, he could pretend.

The audience loved it, however.

"You'd better keep an eye on us." Magnus gave Caesar such a falsely-confident grin it almost gave him chills. Now, his stomach bubbled not with fright or anxiety, but with elation: a sort of victory that he'd managed to pull a lie from nowhere that had successfully deceived a nation.

Of course, nobody else would be fooled. Rosales, Poela, and Fiona would have probably laughed at his display. The Career pack would make it their mission to kill him for humiliating them. And District 12 - all of his family and admittedly few friends - would have just been confused.

_Ah, well._ It was fun while it lasted. This would be Magnus' last opportunity for entertainment before he was sent off to slaughter. And, as he stood up and shook Caesar's strangely-clammy hand, he wore a smile - his chest alight.


End file.
